Peanut Butter Circle
by Maureen Anson
Summary: Set during the peanut butter circle scene in On My Way, Artie reflects on his difficult past with a unique understanding of what Karofsky is going through.


Peanut Butter Circle  
By Maureen Anson

[Standard disclaimers apply. I do not own any characters in this story, they are all owned by Fox. No money is being made.]

I'm not usually comfortable with people seeing me away from my wheelchair. As much as it can push people away, cause them to make assumptions about me or to avoid me entirely, it is also my mobility, my freedom. With it the world opens up. There are still restrictions for various reasons, but then, everyone has something that stops them, somehow. The chair doesn't make me invincible, just functional, but given the choice between being able to go where I want, when I want, within reason and not…I'll take the wheelchair.

That's why I'm surprised when I get to the auditorium for Glee and the first thing that Mr. Schue asks is for me to take a seat on the floor. It wouldn't be the first time that most of the Glee club had seen me out of the chair, which went to Christmas 2010 when I walked for everyone with the Rewalk, but it would be the first time that I sat out of it on the floor like this in front of everyone. I guess he noticed my hesitation, because he was quick to add that I didn't have to if I was uncomfortable or something.

Glee's my family, for better or worse, and after three years, I should be comfortable enough not only with myself, but with them to sit on the ground without it. Tina had seen me away from it at home when we would hang out and watch movies on the couch freshman year and then my epic fall when I had tried to use those crutches to walk. Tina had asked then if I had used them before and I had said no, which was the truth. What I hadn't mentioned then was that I had stood before with the aid of KAFO leg braces and had…well, not walked per se, but perambulated between two bars with a physical therapist. It was sort of the same, but not really.

Then there was Rachel's party and we'd all been drunk then. I'd even managed to tip my chair backwards, despite there being anti-tippers on the back to prevent that. Clearly, I have talent. Finally, there had been the plane ride to New York City and the hotel there. Even then though, I'd remained in my chair except for when I laid down to sleep. The bathroom in our room was adapted and I managed it without help.

I'd trusted them to carry me into and out of the auditorium a few times freshman year. That had really been an exercise in trust too, because the jocks and the nerds had still been at odds back then, two distinct groups and opposed to one cohesive club like we have now. Honestly, I'm really glad that we have more ramps and things now and they don't have to do that. Even if I trust every guy in Glee not to drop me, I'm not a fan of being carried just in general.

Setting the brakes on my chair, I nod and lean over, setting my feet on the floor, then lower myself down. Reaching behind me, I grab my chair cushion, which is designed to prevent pressure sores and things, and set it next to me, before moving onto it and arranging my legs in front of me. It's not…my feet flop to the sides and I feel like it is even more obvious that my legs don't work, but I'm sitting on the ground.

Puck surprises me by being the next in and he comes over, "Want me to move your chair back?" he asks, nonchalant, though I could tell that he was curious about why I was sitting on the floor.

Three years ago, if Puck had approached me, I would have tried to go the other way. If he had mentioned my chair, my stomach would have gone cold as I wondered what was about to happen next, a patriotic wedgie, being locked in a porta-potty, or maybe having my wheels duct taped so I couldn't go anywhere. Now though, I just nod, "Sure," I agree, knowing that he wouldn't move it too far away.

He does and it is just out of my reach, but not impossible for me to get to if I need it. Plus, it's not in anyone's way if they're walking. Perfect.

With a shrug, Puck goes and takes a seat nearby on his pillow. The dude apparently did something and hurt his ass recently so he's been sitting on a pillow. It's been hard not to make comments, but somehow, I've managed it. I've thought them pretty loudly though, even if he can't read my mind. He's been pretty easy going about it all at least.

One by one and two by two everyone else trickles in and takes a seat until we're all in a loose circle. No one's really talking and I can't blame them. Hearing that Karofsky tried to kill himself…it's unsettling at the very least. I wasn't friends with the guy, he had bullied Kurt, but we had been on the football team together the previous year, even if he did slushie me in the most horrifically epic slushie ever. The dude had laughed when I had first suited up, but then, everyone had. Even Coach Beiste had her doubts about the guy in the wheelchair being on her football team.

It was absurd; I knew it, even if I didn't want to admit it. I'd been paralyzed nearly a decade by that point and there I was suiting up to play football? Really? He hadn't laughed when I had given it my all at practices though. I couldn't do everything, even with the off-road chair I used for the grass field, but I'd done my best and the team could see that. I got my letter jacket, I got some time out on the field, and I'd even scored a touchdown. I couldn't ask for more.

Karofsky might not have been a friend, but I think we had a respect for each other, at least to an extent. His bullying of Kurt made it hard sometimes. Really hard, but I didn't wish him dead.

When Mercedes said what she did, about how she didn't think anyone here would 'take their own life'…I wanted to bang my head against something. I didn't though. Firstly, I am not a fan of euphemisms. Call a spade a spade if that's what it is. Secondly, and most importantly, I couldn't believe that she would honestly think that. I wanted to correct her, but my mouth wouldn't open. I couldn't…say it. I might not like euphemisms, but apparently silence works just fine in its place.

I'd been 12 years old. Physical therapy hurt, I was lonely without even Tina as a friend yet, miserable at school and without any sort of release valve, I'd just…snapped. It wasn't anything conscious. At the time it had made completely rational, perfect sense. If I died, then my parents wouldn't have to face the medical bills my care had created. If I died, then I wouldn't be picked on and I wouldn't be lonely because I'd be dead and it wouldn't matter. My family had never been religious and heaven and hell weren't really things that I gave any thought to.

One night, after my parents were asleep and I was supposed to be, I'd gotten out of bed and went to the bathroom, gathering all my little plastic pill bottles from the cabinet. It wasn't easy to reach them, but I'd managed without waking my parents up. Getting a glass of water, I carefully carried it all to the bed and got back in it. It had seemed so easy in my mind. I'd just take all the pills at once. I certainly had enough of them! Quick, painless and simple.

I took a bunch of them. I don't know how many. I don't remember my mom trying to wake me and seeing what I had done, panicking and calling 911. They pumped my stomach though. Have you ever had that happen? It's not fun or pretty. They shove a bunch of tubes down your throat, one so you can breathe, and one so they can get crap into your stomach, then they remove it and you (hopefully) puke. By the time I woke up all that was done. I felt like crap too. It was only right and fair, I suppose.

Did I honestly want to kill myself? Yeah, in that moment I did. At the same time though, once I was out of that moment, I didn't. I needed help and didn't know how to ask for it. In the end, after they adjusted my medications and took me off suicide watch and I got to go home. I had to have weekly appointments with a psychiatrist and a psychologist. I'd already seen a psychologist before, when I was in rehab and all that, after my accident. This one was different though and he had a lot of really good things to say.

Did he fix me? Not in the sense that I talked out my problems and everything was hunky dory. That's not how it works. The first thing he asked me though was if I wanted to live or die. I'd never quite…thought of it in such a basic way. He made me think though, long and hard about what I wanted and he helped me to plan a way to begin achieving my goals. The first one, believe it or not, was guitar lessons. The following summer was the first time I went to a camp for other disabled kids for a week. I was a nervous wreck, but I'd loved every minute I was there and I hadn't wanted to leave when my parents came to get me. Really…Dr. Roscoe helped to empower me so that I felt like I was in control of my life, not just my death. I learned that I can't control others, but I can control myself and I don't have to let others dictate my life. The antidepressants helped too.

That was nearly 7 years ago now as I sit on the stage floor in the auditorium, belatedly realizing that Mr. Schue was talking. I'd been lost in my own memories. As I pieced together his story, I wanted to sigh and shake my head. I know Mr. Schue meant well, he really did, but…like always, what he talked about never quite seemed to resonate with me. Yeah, different people have different triggers and whatnot, I can understand that, and maybe his was so simple as cheating on a test, but…I don't think Mr. Schue knows what real pain is. I don't think he understands what most of us have gone through, the bullying, the loneliness, and the difficulties. I'm not sure Mercedes does right now either and she's one of my closest friends.

Maybe I'm still smarting from a few weeks ago with our encounter with the Warblers and their rock salt slushie. I hold a grudge. It's not one of my better more positive traits, but I do. I don't get mad easily, but when I do, I tend to stay mad for a while. I don't like confrontation either. I'm getting better though at letting things go and speaking up for myself when I am mad. Right now though, is still not that time.

At least Mr. Schue has a point to his story as he asks us to share something we want to see in the future. With a slight smile, I say "I wanna see my kids first steps," surprising myself a little by actually saying the truth and not deflecting with something else.

Go me.

Once our 'peanut butter circle' breaks up and Sam goes to get my chair for me again, we begin rehearsal. I can't speak for everyone, but I feel better. A lot better. Because you know what? It gets better.


End file.
